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Corto watches the see with nostalgia. It’s been several months since he had the opportunity to go back at sea, and now that he arrived in this port, he’s distantly thinking of taking up his travels. But he has no ship, no crew, no destination. The last few months have gone by in a nebulous cloud, an emotional haze, and a physical mist, leaving him bereft of all force.
He doesn’t know what to do with his life. He doesn’t even know what to do of this day that seems endless.
The city he’s in looks like so many others, and yet not even like something he knows. Corto arrived two days ago, and he already forgot the name of this human settlement.
Blinking slowly, his mind tries to find something to do. Maybe find a bar? Or maybe going back where he slept last to sleep the days away?
With a weary hand, he rubs his face. His jaws show the sign of a nascent beard, his sideburns not as defined as usual. Sluggishly, he tries to adjust the lapels of his coat, but his hand falls on his knees without changing much.
He feels like he lost his reason for living, even if… well, nothing happened in a while to explain this. He has not had any bad experience justifying this lack of feeling, lack of being, and the void that has begun to engulf him.
In other words, he doesn’t recognize himself anymore.
The very essence of what made him Corto Maltese seems to have disappeared in recent months…
He gaze at the sea, losing himself in the waves…
Ten minutes goes by, twenty, forty, two hours or even more…
He doesn’t move.
It’s only when his stare is blocked by a body that he begin to regain consciousness of his surroundings. Corto rise his eyes toward the man deliberately blocking his sight.
A piercing stare, on an angular face, skin browned by the sun and the winds, a dark but well-trimmed beard, and a mouth pinched behind this black beard. A face that Corto recognize, a face he hadn’t seen in a while.
“Corto? What are you doing here, in this dreadful place?”
Raspoutine.
Raspoutine which he find often, never where he expect him, but always at the best of time. Corto almost wants to answer him, but his throat is parched, and frankly, he doesn’t even know what to say.
Silence stretches between the two. Corto feels Raspoutine’s stare going over his body, categorizing his unkempt state, noticing his scruffy beard, his creased clothes, hunched shoulders and motionless arms and hands.
The Spanish man is almost ashamed of his state, now that he is in front of a person who knows him, who recognize him, can and will judge him. He has never been like that in front of the Russian, never been this… lifeless, never been less like Corto Maltese than today.
“Alright, come here Corto, you’re useless. Let’s take care of you.”
A calloused hand takes hold of his arm, and with a brusque but gentle movement, Ras help Corto to rise, and guide him through streets and alley of this town whose name he has already forgotten.
The Spanish sailor lets Ras take the lead, he doesn’t want to protest, to free himself from the gentle hold on his arm, nor get away from this man. Ras keeps talking in a low voice, to the point where Corto is not quite certain of the words said.
He’s peripherally aware that his comrade is bringing him somewhere, going through a door, climbing up some stairs, and then in a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. His mind seems muddled, a bit foggier than expected, his consciousness doesn’t seems to want to touch reality yet. He lets himself be guided by Raspoutine, who lets go of his arm, leaving Corto in the middle of the room, motionless. He stays, arms dangling along his body, head down, seeing through the floor.
There’re noises behind him, the sound of voices, someone coming quickly. A new sound of people discussing makes him almost curious. It’s only after a timeless gap in his consciousness that he raise his head. The sound of water being poured making him curious enough to investigate.
He’s just in time to see Raspoutine pouring a bucket in a bigger basin, with a young boy beside him, bringing him two more buckets of fuming water.
Corto’s brain has a hard time connecting the dots… Does… Ras wants to take a bath?
He’s confused, and by the time he finish blinking, the scene has changed. The young boy and the buckets are nowhere to be seen, and Raspoutine is just in front of him. Corto realize the Russian has removed his coat, taken off his shoes, and seems reading to take off his shirt. Slowly, Corto has the brain power to wonder… Maybe he should go if Ras wants to take a bath? That’s the polite thing to do in those case, isn’t it?
“Come on Corto, let’s take care of you coat and your shoes.”
The rough voice of Ras is softened by his expression. Corto doesn’t recognize it, but he kind of want to see it again.
“Come on, you can do it.” This is accompanied by two warm and gentle hands coming to help undress the Spanish man. The coat is thrown over a chair that Corto hadn’t realized was here until now. It'’ rapidly followed by his shoes, butting against the legs of the same chair. The sailor tries to help, but his sluggish movements seem to be more of a bother. In the end, he can only let himself be manipulated by the Russian. Ras takes his time unbuttoning his shirt, removing the lace and buttons of his pants. Corto doesn’t do anything when the bearded man reaches for his underwear. He stands, silently, shoulders hunched, head low, in all his nudity in front of this man. A friend, an ally, a rival… All of that and more.
The warm hands lands on his shoulder and arms, guiding him to the bath.
It was… Was it for Corto then?
It’s seems to be a lot of things for Corto, in this muddled way of thinking.
He lets himself be put in the basin, seating himself, his legs folded to not take all the space. In the back of his mind, he kind of feel ashamed for his nudity, for his body. And yet, he doesn’t have the strength to do anything beside folding his legs, and crossing his arms over it. Not even for long. Everything is too much of an effort to make. And so, his hands come to rest on the bottom of the bucket, his legs just, falling to touch the sides of it.
He lets himself gets manipulated, unable to do anything. He doesn’t have the strength, nor the will to move by himself. Ras take the sponge and begins to bath Corto, garnering no reaction. Neither when he cleans his hair, and shave his nascent beard. Corto only… close his eyes, letting himself go.
He doesn’t see the worried look on Raspoutine face. A look the Russian wears since he spotted him on the waterside, unmoving, lifeless, a shadow of the Spanish man he knows.
Time goes by for Corto, distorted time, different that the reality. And he lets go. He tries to just let everything pass by him. The war, the travels, the deaths of friends and enemies, nothing stay in his mind.
And when he opens his eyes after a while, it’s to the ceiling of the room. Two arms are around him, and legs are bracketing his in the tub. His head lays on a torso, a beard tickling his nape.
Taking a look toward the window, he realize, distantly that the day has gone by, the sun doing his last arc of the day.
Bit by bit, he has the impression that the haze is going away. Outside sensation are crawling back, becoming more real. Maybe Raspoutine, with his gruff manners and his strange way of caring was the thing needed for Corto.
“Ras?”
“who else.”
“…..”
“Spit it out Corto, I’m not going to hit you, not today.”
“…. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me for that. Don’t do it anymore, or I’m going to have to hurt you next time.”
The harsh words are contradicted by the hand coming up to touch delicately the side of his torso, going up and down in a slow motion. Slowly, gently, the spaniard goes to get himself a bit more comfortable, a contented sigh escaping his lips.
Corto doesn't have the impression that this void in his being has been going on for a long time, but he tells himself that maybe.. juste maybe his perception of time is faulty. He never had the impression that days went really by.
And, right now, in this bathtub in a city unamed with Ras at his side... he doesn't think that the coming of tomorrow is really that important.